when the sun explodes
by billiespiper
Summary: Camille never dies. She simply deteriorates.


**title: **when the sun explodes

**summary: **Camille never dies. She simply deteriorates.

/

He traces the angry cuts that mark up her otherwise picture perfect skin with a gentle fingertip. Really, all he wants to do is to grind his thumb into the marks until they disappear on her skin and away from their life. He looks at her, brown eyes watering slowly and a rather sheepish glance crawling across her face.

"I'm so sorry." He whispers against her skin, lips brushing across her body like he's painting her. "I should have known."

She lightly grips his chin and tilts his face up, that lopsided grin of hers sliding on. It's always been impossible to him, how she'll smile in any situation.

"Hey, it's okay." He closes his eyes, unable to look at anything, especially himself, right now. "I'm a great actress."

He laughs, but it's humorless and empty and pitiful. Moving his hand away from the marks on her wrist, and up towards her pronounced rib bones, Logan counts each and every one.

"Still…" His breathing grows heavy. "Still."

She just reaches down to twine her fingers with his, bringing them away from her too thin body and up to rest on her own cheek. Camille closes her eyes at the touch of his hand against her face, and with every shallow breath she takes, his hand bumps, moving in sync with her.

They fall asleep like that, twisted and awkward, but still perfectly _them_.

/

It starts on a Thursday.

She waits by her phone all day for a conformation of a T.V. show role, but it stays silent, only the occasional text from Jo popping up on her screen. Camille's tapping on the glass table in front of her with her bitten down nails, head twisting every time she hears something even slightly like a buzz.

This role wasn't _just_ a role. It wasn't a walk on, or a one time appearance, or even a three episode character bridge. It was a _lead_. For a brand new show, that everyone was determined was going to make it big time. The director had smiled at her with those bleached-white teeth and winked with a hushed "Great job, Camille.". So it's only natural that she should be getting a call around now {_congratulations, camille roberts. if you'll be willing to take the job, we would love to have you play illiade._}

Yet instead, all she gets is the looming silence that thuds in her ears, a dizzying pressure accompanied by a stream of thoughts, insults.

_You're just not good enough, Camille. You're too fat, too dramatic, too obnoxious. I don't know why you even thought you'd get the role. __**Ugly**__. _

Camille presses her fists against the sides of her head, until the physical pain overtakes the emotional pain. But just squeezing your fingers against your temples isn't enough. She needs the raw, unadulterated, sharp sting that will make her forget that she's not good enough.

Fifteen minutes later, she finds herself in front of the sink, pressing the square little blade against her papery skin until it splits to reveal the rich, satin red blood it's been covering. She's careful to only cut an inch or two, as to not hit a vein. She's always been this way- calculated, collected. Even with abhorrent blood staining her skin, Camille has her head on her shoulders.

She closes her eyes, breathing in slowly, and letting the pain keep her focused, if only slightly. She can pinpoint the sting to keep her grounded, but the corners of her brain go fuzzy as she releases the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

It's like an energy drink, that supercharges your mind, then slows it down, then speeds it up again until you vomit. The headrush makes her heart pulse against her rib cage- in a _good_ way.

She wraps a plain white shirt around her wrist and keeps it tight until the gushing blood that soaks the cloth begins to water down and slow. Tossing it in the garbage (but not before wrapping it up with toilet paper), Camille sinks to the floor of her bathroom and lets her head fall against the edge of her porcelain tub. In the quiet, empty room, the only thing she can hear is her heavy breathing.

A shrill buzz sounds from her door, followed by a soft call of "Camille? You there?". Her boyfriend is at the door, waiting, and none to patiently.

"Babe? You in?"

She pinches her sleeve between those torn up, chewed down nails and drags them to cover up the angry red cut that's glaring at her. _failure_. It whispers. _disappointment. _

Camille opens the door, mid-knock, leaving Logan falling almost into her. He steadies himself quickly, smiling despite the blush that's creeping up onto his cheeks. God, she loves that boy. One look at him makes her feel better, even if she still wants to drag the little blade across her skin.

"Camille! Hey. So, uh. Yeah." Logan reaches up to scratch his head, scrunching his face up. "Sorry, I lost my train of thought. Uhm… oh, yeah! Did you hear back about the role?"

The happiness that's slowly leaked into her chest deflates immediately, as soon as she remembers _why_ she's cut herself.

"Oh. Yeah. They said they would have casted me, but I looked too much like the supporting character, who they already cast. You know?" She almost reaches up to run her fingers through her hair, before stopping herself. It's Logan's surefire way to tell that she's lying.

His face crumples, and _fuck_ is he adorable. He doesn't bother with annoying "I'm sorry. They're stupid." speeches, just pulls her into his arms and walks them over to the couch without breaking the embrace. Camille doesn't cry- she has her little scar instead of crying. _As soon as he's gone._ She thinks to herself. A secretive smirk forms on her chapped lips, and it's a good thing her face is buried in his chest, otherwise Logan would be very confused.

After crushing her to his body for about twenty minutes, he pulls back to look at her tear-less face. Logan cocks his head sweetly, eyebrows creasing and mouth pursing in confusion.

"Why aren't you upset? I mean, not that I want you to be, it's just that you usually… I should shut up now."

Something tugs up half her mouth, and all she does is lean in to kiss him full on the lips.

She really is a great actress. Just not on the stage.

/

Being a performing artist, Camille finds that she can do better, more _creative_ things to relieve her pain than just cutting herself.

The next time a tug of "_failure, Camille._" starts at her chest, she twists the knob on her stove until a blue-orange flame flickers around the grate. Her heart thuds heavily, adrenaline pumping through her blood. There's already six little cuts on her arm, but it's _boring_ to just slice and slice and slice. It's monotonous, always the same. The pain never changes. The same kind of sting, the same kind of bite.

Camille holds her arm about a foot above the fire, so the heat reaches her skin, but doesn't quite burn yet. Inch by inch, she lowers her hand. The closer her arm goes to the fire, the hotter it gets, until the flicker scorches her arm hairs. _ouch_. When her hand trembles, it drops closer into the fire, and she screeches. But it's a _good_ pain. And when the thrumming heat dances across her skin, she can't even remember the name of the T.V. show that rejected her (_actually, that's a lie. she can remember every single one of the lines given to her in her script_).

Her skin blisters, and it hurts so fucking bad please don't make it stop oh god more more more. Camille's arm shoots up and finally, the scorch is gone. Yet, the bliss in her brain doesn't manage to override the pain on her skin. But hey, she's not thinking about that fucking T.V. show.

Five minutes later, once the odd pleasure disappears, it hits her that she needs to go to the _hospital. _But her arm feels like she's shoved it in a fucking shark's mouth or something. Every twitch is another wave of pain, another stab. Tears begin to well in her eyes.

_Don't cry, Camille. Crying is weak. Are you weak? Oh, I forgot. You are a weak, pathetic, whining little bitch. _

When she manages to blink away the tears, Camille tenderly lifts her arm and walks to the Knight's apartment. With her good fist, she bangs on the door three times.

The door swings open, and it's Jo, a beautiful smile plastered on to her beautiful, picture perfect face.

"Hey, Camille! What's up?" Camille can feel her consciousness slipping. Black dots make her vision blurry.

She lifts up her arm for Jo to see, third degree burns and coal black, burnt hairs. Jo screams, and Logan runs to the door. More black spots.

All she can see before she passes out is the way Logan blanches from her like she's a monster.

/

She's discharged from the hospital the next morning with a cast and a warning not to cook so dangerously. As fucking if.

But with the medication, and the secure grip that Logan has on her hand, Camille doesn't feel her pain anymore. And isn't that the only thing keeping her from exploding? The only thing that keeps her _Camille Roberts_, the sweetest yet most dramatic teen you've ever seen? If she can only slice and burn and destroy every inch of her flesh, then that happy go lucky smile will forever remain on her lips. Isn't that what she wants?

/

Camille's lying on her bed, counting, memorizing any odd markings on the pristine Palm Woods ceilings. In her right ear, she can hear the steady drum of Logan's heart beat. Her hair is splayed across his chest- and she just hates it when people describe that as beautiful in stories because she _knows_ that she looks ugly as fuck right now. Doesn't she always? Insecurities bite away at her insides, telling her to puke or to shove away the food. Telling her that she'll never, ever be skinny enough for Logan.

Logan. His arm is curled around her shoulders, but it's too hot. Too heavy. The air conditioning is off in the apartment, and the L.A. heat drifting in through her open windows makes her clothing stick to her skin. His eyes are closed peacefully, fluttering every so often when he exhales. Camille runs a finger down his jawline and smothers herself into his body. He smells like he's applied just the perfect amount of Axe. It's not like some boys, where you drown in the scent, but more like he's put on just enough to leave an impression. That's how people remember you, Camille thinks. Distinct scent (_and beauty, or lack thereof_).

She wraps her hand around his, but only to lift it up off her shoulders. Swinging her legs over the bed, Camille pads to her bathroom, and takes one last glimpse at Logan to make sure he's asleep before locking the door.

As she hasn't eaten for a while, she's not sure it will work. All she knows is that she wants the long, now manicured, nail of her pointer finger to scrape haphazardly down her throat. It's not the worst pain, but it's more the thought of it that makes her excited.

Camille bunches up her hair in one fist, and rests her pointer finger on her tongue. She lets it sit there for a moment- can feel it pulsating under skin. One shove of her wrist, and she can just feel her dangling uvula. She tickles it, almost playfully.

Anyone who's thrown up before would know that it doesn't come instantly. Only idiots would write about simply placing a finger down your throat and _pop_, out comes your lunch. Sometimes, it's faster, but usually it takes three gags before there's actual digested food coming out.

As a professional, Camille would know that it isn't finger in, food out, skinny skinny skinny. She doesn't even do it to loose weight- she does it so she has some fucking _control_ in her life. So that, even when she's stuffing her face with chocolates and sugar-laden sweets, she can have that control back when she's depositing it back out. She can't and couldn't control her mother leaving, she can't control casting directors decisions, but she can control what goes in and out of her body. And it makes her so fucking _happy_.

Camille gags, throat tensing. She has to take her finger out for a moment to let her mouth rest. The toilet bowl is still empty. She should have done it right when she was done eating, not a second after. While her muscles adjust, Camille, rubs the small cuts adorning her knuckles. Believe it or not- these were not made with a razor blade. They were made by her teeth, the effect of jamming her hand down her throat.

Finally, she reaches forwards and collects her hair again. She sticks her finger down her throat- this time more forcefully. Angry. At herself, at her disorder, at her sick need for pain (_and attention_).

Now, yellow bile dribbles down her chin. She can taste something rusty- her blood, swirling with the vomit. It's only happened a few times before, but this thrill, the danger, the fear brought with it, makes her smile.

She flushes twice and grabs a face cloth, wiping her mouth on it. Camille brings a handful of cold water from the tap up to her mouth to gargle.

_Swish, swish, gargle. Spit. Repeat._

For this moment in time, she can allow herself to be (somewhat) content.

Camille unlocks the door and exits the bathroom, glancing at a still-sleeping Logan. Sighing happily, she crawls into bed next to him and rests her chin on his shoulder, wrapping his arm around her again.

_It's her perfection._

_/_

Camille Roberts can pinpoint for you the exact date, time and place where everything falls apart.

July 2nd, 2011. 7:43 p.m., in her bathroom at the Palm Woods. Except it's not her that falls apart- it's Logan. She's reading a book, curled under the covers. Logan's gone to the bathroom, and everything should be _just fine_. Everything should continue to move along perfectly.

"_Fuck_!" Camille's head snaps up when her boyfriend shouts. It surprises her, as Logan rarely ever curses. He's pure, good.

"Logan, is something wrong?" She calls, only really half interested.

He exits the bathroom, face flushed and chest heaving. Camille closes the book and slides it to the floor, jumping up from her perch on the couch to walk swiftly towards him.

"What happened, baby? What's wrong?" Logan stops her a few feet before she reaches him. His hand is trembling as he holds it out- but not towards her. Not for her to take.

"Stop. God, oh my _God_, Camille." His voice hitches halfway through, and she thinks she can see a row of tiny little teardrops pop up on his waterline.

"Logan, what's wrong? You're scaring me."

His eyes are suddenly alive, livid. They aren't warm, but fiery. The irises dance like a ring of heat. Although it is not a passionate heat, it's an angry heat.

"Fucking _hell_, Camille. What the _fuck_ is this?"

That's when she can see the glint of her prized little blade in his hand, biting into his palm. A thin, very thin, line of blood that she'd somehow forgotten to wash off lines the edge.

Logan waits for a contradiction. Waits for a "_it's not mine, i don't know where it came from", _but instead, all he gets is her lips falling open in shock, and jaw trembling slightly. Her eyes water, and he feels so fucking bad. He shouldn't be yelling at her- he's not even angry with her. He's angry at himself. For not noticing. For ignoring the way happiness seemed to slip from her eyes with every passing day, ebbing further and further into the shadows.

He swallows the lump in his throat, and reaches up to gently grasp her shoulders, pulling her slightly resistant body into him. His face is still stoic as she trembles and shakes against him, but his heart is breaking, shattering, with every little sob that comes from her mouth. Camille's tears have probably ruined his shirt, but honestly, who would give a fuck at a time like this?

Once the tears have stopped, Logan wraps his fingers around her wrists and lifts them up, tilting them to the light. At first, he sees nothing. Then, her rubs the make up away with his finger and the little slivers are revealed.

Camille can not bring herself to meet his eyes. She knows they will be filled with disappointment, and that's just another mark to add.

"Are you going to make me stop?"

Her voice is cracked from all the crying.

"I can't _make_ you do anything. I mean, I obviously don't _want_ you too, but I don't want you to feel like I'm restricting you too tightly. I just- what if you rebel or something? What if I hold you on a tight leash and take away every sharp object and it builds up and up and up, and then… But, what if I don't take care of you, and- and you just continue, I mean, Camille, tell me what you want."

He's rambling, she knows. He doesn't want an answer. His words slur as he gestures lightly with the hands still wrapped around her waist.

She kisses him to shut him up.

It works.

/

I guess you could say that Camille Roberts was dead. Not physically, but emotionally. Even with Logan Mitchell by her side, she was a shell.

Insecurities that whispered _failure_ would always override any happy moment.

It isn't sudden. Camille doesn't explode, or combust. She simply deteriorates. Wasting away. The skinnier she is, the heavier she feels.

She doesn't die until much later in life. But on the inside, where her empty heart and sharp rib bones are, Camille Roberts is dead.

/

**a/n:**

**THE ANGST OF IT ALL...**

**holaa. First Big Time Rush fic, whadup? So yeah, I'm more from the Victorious fandom ahah. And I am **_**not**_** deserting it at all! 3 I'm still working on chapter three of Macabre Fairytales (kinda. maybe. but it WILL be out soonish), yet I'm finding a lot of inspiration with BTR, I don't know why. And I don't mean like original characters or whatever… I don't know. Sorry. I lost my train of thought. WHAT AM I SAYING RIGHT NOW? ashlasf. Okay, sorry, it's like three a.m. (no, more like 12, **_**whatever**_**) and I really wanted to get this posted so sorry for any spelling / grammar / continuity errors. Also sorry for not forming coherent thoughts in the authors note...**

**So I'm definitely in love with Logan/Camille so look out for plenty more of that from me. I'm thinking of writing a James-centric fic ("Me, Myself, and I") and a bunch of other stuff. **

**I hope you enjoyed! xx. I'm looking forward to writing for BTR, so yup. :) **

**byee**

**-Layla-**


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